


Leave the World Unseen

by motleystitches (furius)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, M/M, Obsession, Prison, Revenge, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:16:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/pseuds/motleystitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from the xmen_firstkink prompt:<br/>The Xavier Institute for the Criminally Insane is home to the most dangerous mutants in the world – some are genuine threats to humanity, while some are unfortunately just threats to themselves.</p><p>Then the son of the institute's founder is incarcerated, having left a trail of psychic husks in his wake. He's perfectly friendly, unassuming and takes a shine to Erik, whose most favourite hobby is getting rid of the bodies of the guards/fellow inmates he's most recently offed.</p><p>It's twisted-dark-serial-killing-love-at-first-sight for the pair of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first night was the lullaby.

He must've imagined it. Each lulling note, each soft word- his father's voice which he thought he had forgotten.

The music broke through the snores, the shrieks, the occasional clang of metal and the drip of the pipes in the walls. In the middle of the night, lying on his hard bed, Erik wept. And for the first time since his incarceration, his face was turned toward the wall instead of toward the door. He closed his eyes, seeing bursts of starlight behind his eyelids, wishing, absurdly, like the song, that he could capture one.

When he opened his eyes, the thin rays of the dawn had stabbed through the window and the sound had faded. Everything else seemed to have faded, too. The world seemed to have fallen silent, hushed- even the usual litany of morning curses from Logan was absent.

He felt numb, his limbs heavy, his head echoed with a child's pleasant memory. For a while, he contemplated getting up, but the futility of the gesture seemed exhausting.

-=-=

When Erik woke again, it was to the sound of the metal slot on the door opening and the food tray hitting the ground. Instead of the usual bagels and eggs they were given for breakfast, there was actually a mash that looked like it might've been vegetables.

"Rough night for you, too?" Janos said. He was one of the more talkative of the guards. From behind the glass, Erik noted that his clothes were uncharacteristically messy. His hair, too, which he sometimes brushed in front of the inmates, using the glass as a mirror, seemed almost in disarray. "It's that way for everyone. Must be the weather. It's an Indian summer out there," Janos continued. "Before you ask, this is dinner."

Erik had slept the day away. He clenched his hands. How did it happen? He was tempted to ask Janos, but Janos tended to shut up if anyone actually answered, especially if Erik spoke. It was better to let him continue. The place was still suspiciously silent except for Janos rattling on. Erik could wait.

Sure enough. "Sean, I think we must get you to a doctor. You're looking the worst of the lot."

Sean Cassidy was six cells down. Erik had seen him when he first arrived. He was about nineteen, a red-head. Although his voice could, according to rumor, pierce bodies and collapse buildings- all of them reasons he was admitted-- Erik was certain he did not know Polish otherwise he wouldn't smile at Erik so brightly during exercise times.

An hour later, three burly orderlies arrived with a stretcher. Azazel was with them. When he caught Erik staring as they carried Sean out, the boy's eyes wide with shock, he tapped the side of his nose and pointed at Erik.

It would almost be a threat if Erik was already anticipating seeing Shaw tomorrow anyways.

-=-=

Predictably, having slept the whole day away, when lights-out was called, Erik found himself sitting in the dark, listening intently. For what, he wasn't sure. He itched under his skin. Something was happening. Everyone knew. They were all restless as he was. He could hear Alex Summers in the cell next to him, hitting the walls with his fists and then, several loud thumps that was probably him slamming bodily into the observation glass.

They were always watched. The inmates of the Institute were not only people receiving treatment and care, but they were also designated criminally insane. No doubt some of them were, but others were just unfortunate. Sean, for example, couldn't have anticipated that shouting at his friends in another car would somehow implicate a mutation that allowed the sound to have the exact vibrational wavelength of the bridge they were all on, causing it to collapse. It had been almost rush hour. Dozens died, hundreds were injured, not to mention the damage to infrastructure. He had been seventeen but was tried as an adult, narrowly avoiding the death penalty by mere virtue of the institute's existence. They performed an operation on his throat. Erik had never heard him speak other than a hoarse rasp though lately, he thought there was a hysterical edge to it.

Alex had a similar story. At his high-school graduation, he killed his parents and his entire class due to the plasma rays he emitted from his body. He thought he deserved to be imprisoned and punished. He had weekly meetings with the psychiatrist, which was always preceded by him battering his body always -- he always came back swathed in bandages and glaring. He once told Erik that they all deserved to die. He was blond and his tan had faded in the time he was in there. There were no windows in his room and he did not go outside. He emitted no rays, but either could not or did not wish to be released. The Institute had a duty to the public and to its residents.

Then there were people like Logan, who proudly declared whom he had killed and for what reason. He was, as far as Erik could gather, a vigilante. Erik could admire a man like that, though he understood society might be justifiably afraid. "Let whom who had not sinned cast the first stone-" and Logan was perfect, from his foot-long bone claws to his miraculous healing ability. He was, for all intents and purposes, immortal, antediluvian in nature. He was a miracle. He could and should not exist, therefore he was put away, kept out of sight until the walls that contained him crumbled.

As for Erik himself. He was unlucky. When he was still only a child, he met Sebastian Shaw. Or, Herr Doktor Schimdt, as he styled himself to Erik then. It had been twenty years, Schmidt became Shaw, he shaved his mustache, he now conducted his appointments with Erik in English instead of German. But as far as Erik was concerned, he had never stepped outside of the Institute. It was his world.

He knew its rhythms. He knew its structure. He knew what he could do within it, what Janos or Azazel or even Shaw didn't know he could do. They thought that if they suppressed his ability to bend metal, they controlled him.

When he was sixteen, he had fallen sick from a virulent strain of flu (courtesy of a new inmate, and Erik had always been so carefully brought up) and was admitted to the hospital wing. There had been a nurse whom he had seen sporadically since they (rather, Shaw, moved to the States). Erik thought he was still shivering from a fever when she stripped him in the middle of the night and touched him between his legs until he was breathless.

"Shush," she had whispered, then climbed on top of him. Erik, his hands strapped to the wooden bed with leather, almost cried out at the sudden rush of heat running through him. The fluorescent light above him cast her smiling face in stark relief while her breasts bounced in front of him. His climax surprised him, and her. "You're growing up very beautiful," she whispered to him as he heaved for breath, "though perhaps louder than you should be." She gagged him after that, then put her mouth on him until he was ready again.

He was in there for a week longer before Shaw interrupted. Only later Erik realised he must've time his visit. He had glanced at Erik and the nurse and laughed. In this, too, Shaw's educational philosophy prevailed. Erik was sheltered until he wasn't. His first experience of sex contained the entirely of his education about sex. That year, he learned that his body, too, was a weapon, because for a whole week while the nurse coaxed his body to do what she willed, he wasn't drugged. His thoughts had never been clearer. He had a new currency. Erik was never given a mirror. Shaw did not age. For the first time, Erik realised he was growing up. A year later, he learned that he had enough strength in his hands to strangle a man and Schmidt wouldn't comment. The nurse was still there, the corpse could disappear.

The first man Erik killed had been a guard. He tried to threaten Erik with an actual knife- Erik had long forgotten the reason. He remembered that Shaw didn't let the stupid live.

But on the second night since he heard the lullaby, his body betrayed him. One moment he was listening to Alex's ritual self-mutilation, then he heard Logan bite off a curse. And simultaneously, there was a dozen or a hundred hands grabbing at him, pinching at his skin, some stroking, some punching. He lay huddled on the floor, almost delirious. He thought of the mashed vegetables. He clawed at his abdomen, reaching beneath his shirt to dislodge hands and fingers that weren't there. He wondered if he had been given something else, something new. But no, Shaw would've warned him first. Shaw liked him. Shaw didn't like needless pain. It was inefficient.

Then he heard footsteps and all of a sudden, it stopped. Erik dragged himself upright, panting for breath.

A pair of bright blue eyes stared at him from behind the glass. The eyes belonged to a pale boyish face with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of the nose. Below the nose was a pair of distracting lips. This was how Erik knew the man was not a boy. No boy could have that expression.

"Charles Xavier, your new cellmate," the man declared, and as easy as anything, opened the door and walked into Erik's room.

-=-=


	2. Chapter 2

"You can't be here," Erik said, approaching warily and in spite of himself. He didn't look like a guard. No guard ever dared to get so close to him. He didn't have anything on his belt either.

"Can't I?" asked Charles, smiling. "It's mine."

"What's yours?"

"Xavier's Institute for the Criminally Insane. If it is not mine now, it will be." He actually leaned forwards until their noses were almost touching. Erik had never been so close to another person unless he intended to kill them, but there was something in Charles' expression that made him almost flinch. "Don't you know where you are or is it all the same to you? Erik Lensherr isn't it? Shaw did mention you're institutionalized."

"You shouldn't be in here," Erik repeated. He didn't know whether he said it for his sake or Charles. He was clearly stupidly unafraid of either Erik or Shaw.

"As I mentioned," Charles said, arching an eyebrow, "this place belongs to me. This place and everything and everyone in it, including you."

"I don't belong to anyone," Erik said.

"My friend, that's what we all like to think. Now then, where shall I sleep?"

Erik ignored how easily he's thrilled by the possessive. Charles was smiling. In a face that looked less kind, it might've been a smirk. "Why are you here?"

"I'm your new cellmate, Erik. Truthfully, I need a place to sleep and it's so quiet here."

Erik laughed out loud in disbelief. "To sleep? Here?"

"Yes, yes," Charles seemed annoyed. "Must I repeat everything twice with everyone? A bit of this and a bit of that and this is the most peaceful spot in the entire blasted building."

"A bit of this-" Erik began then stopped. No doubt Charles would elaborate in time. "I only have one bed," he said instead.

"Yes, you'll have one, I'll have another. Come along now." Unbelievably, Charles gestured at the door. "Open it."

Erik gritted his teeth. "I can't. You locked it after you came through." He cursed his own idiocy now, but he had been so surprised and so tired that the thought never crossed his mind. "There are amber actuators inside."

Charles merely waved a hand. "Open it, or should I get someone else?" He made it sound like an insult. Erik resisted.

"Be my guest."

Charles Xavier sighed then tapped on the glass several times. Janos came by. His mouth fell open. He was reaching for his phone when a glazed look came over his face. "You need to get out," he said. Intrigued, Erik watched carefully as he put his palm over the lock. There was a hiss of air and the door was open.

"Thank you, Janos. It's very kind of you," Charles said. He turned to Erik. "Are you coming?"

Erik had no intention of going with Charles Xavier anywhere. Nonetheless, he found himself following, past a surprised looking Alex on the floor, a disgruntled Logan leaning against a wall, and a dark man with white luminous eyes- he was the infamous Darwin.

Then they entered the main hallway. Charle was ahead of him. If Erik happened to turn right and head toward Shaw, surely Charles wouldn't notice. Except, when Erik tried, he found himself unable to turn. He wanted to see what Charles Xavier intended. Erik could defend himself. He was unbound. There was metal all around him and it was late enough that the drugs in his system were ebbing. He stretched his fingers-

"Come closer," Charles bade him. He had turned around. "I need some quiet."

Erik ignored him. They were near the first checkpoint. The shift was changing, which meant security was awake. They would be seen. He had to move fast. Just as he rounded the corner, almost a full troop of soldiers met them in full combat gear. Erik saw himself on the shiny black of their visors and shields. Their stun weapons were familiar, but he had never seen the helmets before. Even as he tensed for a fight, Erik thought of how idiotic it had all been.

"Ah," he thought he heard Charles say. Erik, to his amazement, actually felt his power surge upwards until his sense of metal sharpened. However, before he could revel in the fact, there was a shift and all the helmets moved upward in the air, the metal melting and flowing together until they formed a sort of carapace on the ceiling.

"Go to sleep," he heard Charles say and the men in front of them crumpled like a deck of cards. But they were alive, their chests rising and falling with each breath, an oddly tranquil expression on their faces.

"Erik," Charles said, as if he had read Erik's thoughts, "killing so many them would just create paperwork." He stepped over the bodies. "Let me show you our new room."

Erik swallowed. The sense of metal was gone, as sudden as it appeared, replaced by the dull lethargy of his usual state and a senseof loss that was like a hollow in his chest. Charles frowned when he didn't move. His hand was moving toward his temple.

"How did you- What are you?" Erik managed.

"Telepath," Charles answered.

-=-=

There were indeed two beds in the room Charles led them. Erik entered the room, seething with fury. He had just witnessed Charles pass through locked doors and soldiers like they were nothing and yet there they were, inside yet another room. It was closer to the main doors than Erik's cell. He figured that there were only thirty yards of concrete between him and freedom. He was also under no illusions that he could pass through those thirty yards without Charles' help.

He sat down stiffly on one of the leather armchairs. The room made him uncomfortable There were carpets under his feet, wood panelling on the walls, and even fresh vases of flowers on the tables. The beds had canopies. Charles had his back towards him. He never saw Erik move.

"Would you like the lullaby again?" Charles murmurred sleepily, as if Erik didn't have the carved edge of a shard of ceramic against his neck.

Erik almost loosened his hold. His thoughts were fumbling already. He stared at the reddening swell of skin against the edge of his makeshift blade. "It was you?"

"You were all so sad." Charles cracked open one blue-eye, the side of his face still quashed into an embroidered pillow. "It was so noisy out there. People need to be quiet," the fervency of his words was vaguely disturbing. "I needed a place to sleep, a mind that moves upon silence."

"I'm so glad I found you," he said. He reached up and touched Erik lightly, on the shoulder. The angle was awkward. "You're not alone, Erik."

Then Erik's hand was empty. No, that wasn't true. He was holding Charles against him with both arms. They were fully dressed, Charles' eyes had fallen closed. The bed was too soft. Erik stayed awake. Then it was morning and he heard a knock on the door.

-=-=


	3. Chapter 3

"I hope you found your new accommodations pleasant. We went to quite a bit of trouble."

Erik was with Shaw again. One day he would be dead by Erik's hand. Shaw knew this. Shaw made sure that Erik knew that he knew. It pleased him during their sessions that Erik couldn't do anything except talk which meant Shaw had a very distinct advantage. Shaw taught him all his languages and Erik had exhausted all his permutations of vocabulary for Shaw a long time ago.

"I hope you do not exercise your more...disturbing habits upon Charles. Unlike the others, he would be missed. I would miss him. And you, too, I think. It's so difficult to find an institute that could give me so much resources and freedom. The Xaviers have been kind to us, Erik. We should be kind to them as well." Towards the end, the menace came through, or perhaps that was just the silver needles he was sticking through Erik's skin. Shaw had been in his gentler phases lately. Feeling like a pincushion was distinctly better than feeling like a pinned bug. Belatedly, Erik realised Sebastian's..absentmindedness toward Erik of late might've something to do with Charles as well.

"You put him up to it," he said from the table.

"You will find, or perhaps you already have, that it is very difficult to put the young Xavier up to anything."

"Why doesn't he just leave?" Charles hadn't exhibited the self-loathing of his powers he sometimes saw among others and surely if he required treatment, there would've been private care available for the man whose namesake owned all the proprietary research (and him, and them, even Shaw, his mind whispered).

"The reason, my Erik, provide the livelihood of lawyers and judges in at least three counties, and possibly a small town or two. The entire perimeter has been expanded and refitted for his benefit, but they really shouldn't have bothered. He's unlikely to leave now. He has good tastes, our young master Charles, he picked you, but you've always been..tempting."

And you let him, Erik thought, before Shaw turned on the EMG, the currents running through the wires and needles into his skin.

-=-=

Erik could still stand afterwards but Azazel's strict hold on him was, if not comforting, at least familiar. Shaw didn't like the smell in enclosed places so they were in the neat waiting area outside the laboratory.

"Janos," Erik prompted. The knock in the morning had startled him. No one had ever knocked requesting permission to ener. He had gotten up, dithered in front of the door before it opened and he saw someone he had never met holding one tray. He had taken one look at Erik and fled, leaving Erik with a breakfast that arrived with cutlery.

"Gone," Azazel replied. "He shouldn't have."

Four words. Something's going on. "Who shouldn't have?"

Azazel gave him an odd look. The tip of his tail whistled through the air. "Don't ask any more questions, Lehnsherr."

A moment later, they were back in Erik's room. Erik and Charle's room, now, he supposed. It was still a prison despite all the luxuries. The windows were tall but barred and meshed. Erik had knocked out a piece of glass that morning. It had already been replaced with the usual thick plexiglass.

"Welcome back, Erik. Good to see you. Azazel is it?" Charles said, as if men appeared suddenly in front of him in a fog of sulphuric smoke all the time. He looked like as if he had just gotten out of a shower. His hair was damp, curling around his forehead and his ears. He was wearing a collared blue shirt that undercast his eyes to an almost unnatural vibrancy in the noonday light. "Would you like to stay for tea? Erik, sit down, you look famished."

Azazel's grip on Erik's wrists actually tightened. Charles probably couldn't see from where he was sitting.

"It's actually a bit terrible that there's no place to properly entertain. It's like being back at student digs again," Charles chatted on, as if oblivious.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Azazel asked. Erik turned his head so fast that he nearly snapped his neck.

"I'm not as comfortable as I like," Charles said gently. "Why don't you let Erik go? He had been helping me adjust. We should all sit down."

Abruptly, Erik felt the release of plastic cuffs and hand on his elbow. No, thought Erik wildly.

Charles frowned. His hand went to his temple. "I'll see you later," he said, just as Azazel said, "Don't-" and disappeared.

"Why are you here?" Erik asked.

"You're shaking, Erik."

He was, but that was only because Charles was there, with him. They were left alone. There was metal hidden in the window sill. He hadn't had breakast. Shaw had been experimenting. With a thought, he could-

"I was having my breakfast this morning when I noticed that a spoon was missing. A small egg spoon. I wonder if you've seen it. It had been part of a set I had," Charles said. “It’s not expensive, but there’s sentimental value, you understand, especially now it seems I’m here for the long haul.” Charles smiled depreciatingly. Erik didn’t understand anything Charles just said. "You don't think we have thieves here, do you?"

"I think everyone’s here,” Erik said tightly.

“That’s actually,” Charles tilted his head and looked up at Erik with a wondering expression, “a remarkably astute observation. It hadn’t occurred to me.” He poured a cup of tea and handed it to Erik. The clatter of cup against the saucer was obscenely loud. “I think I would need your wisdom,” Charled continued, “but I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

That’s when Erik noticed it, a small purple bruise on the side of Charle’s neck from an inexpert needle.

“What is that?” he asked, reaching forward as he put down his tea. Charles actually finched. Erik pointed at his own neck instead. Had Charles stepped outside these rooms since he had been gone? It couldn’t have been Shaw and Erik didn’t know anyone in the Institute who was so bad with needles.

"Oh, that's just-" Charles face suddenly closed. "What would you like for lunch?"

It took a moment for Erik to realise he had been asked a question and someone was actually expecting an answer.

"What do you think I would like," he said instead, deeply curious and wary.

“Do you know the name of the person who brought breakfast this morning? You really should have taken something. Everything here’s for you as well.”

“I really shouldn’t.” Vomiting in front of Shaw was a humiliation he had left behind in childhood. “And no, I don’t.”

“Pity,” Charles said, then got up and walked to the door. He scribbled something on a piece of paper then pushed the note through beneath the door. “It’s better that they have it in writing,” he explained as he came back. “I hope you don’t mind simple food. I’m not that hungry myself but you are.”

“And you can feel everything I feel?”

“I _feel_ , Erik, what everyone feels,” came the disconcerting answer, “except for you, Erik. I know everything about you as well.”

“Why?”

Charles shrugged. “Why are we who we are? We can’t change our natures. I can’t help being myself just as you can be no one other than yourself. The most we can do is hide, adjust to established rules and conventions as you have, here. As I will, with your help.”

And yet, so far, Charles’ been breaking every rule Erik knew. Charles must’ve caught his thought, because he blushed, the rosy tinge of his skin making Erik uncomfortable.

“Do you know how to play?” Another question.

“Play?”

“Chess,” Charles said.

There was a book he had studied once during one of Shaw’s more temporary appointment when he had been given less freedom with Erik. He had actually been sent to school and study with all the other children, given study and leisure times and been encouraged to cultivate a hobby, possibly in hope that he wouldn’t continue in his ways. He had almost forgotten he was Shaw’s until they left again. He looked around the room. He hadn’t had time to explore what it held yet. “Do you have a set?”

“I had several, back at Oxford. I keep losing the pieces, you see, so I suppose there’s only one complete set. I wasn’t allowed to bring it with me, however. No matter,” Charles waved a hand dismissively, his watch flashing in the sunlight with the movement, “we shall have another.”

Just then, lunch arrived arrived with a knock. Simple fare: warm bread rolls, a reddish soup, meat, vegetables, fruits and a dark-colored dessert. Erik had been starved only rarely, but he had never had all of those food at the same time. It was a feast. Plastic knives and forks and plastic this time, but he was hungry.

“Just write it down and slip through the door, or shout through the door even, I suppose. The guards are paid to do something other than standing around.”

They weren’t, as long as Erik knew them, but he didn’t care, though he realised that whatever Charles said about knowing him, having Erik with him also meant that there could be no cameras or electronics inside this room with its opaque walls and doors and a view to the outside. He must trust Erik more than anyone else. The knowledge was strange. He put it aside. For a while, they ate in silence until Charles started talking about chess again. It had clearly been a hobby.

“There’s a workshop,” Erik started uncertainly. Talking about it, his fingers flexed in memory. Abruptly, he realised Charles was watching him. He had always been watched, but it was different now, the close regard without the barrier of glass was almost...pleasant. “I know someone else who could get us a set, if you like,” he offered.

“I like that very much,” Charles dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. He had only touched the soup. “The afternoon shift starts in an hour. We should go.”

-=-=


	4. Chapter 4

The Institute was not a normal prison, but nor was it a hospice. Its workshops were there for purposes of recreation and therapy, which due to the nature of the patients and inmates meant that they were seldom used and mostly contracted out to actual artisans who needed a temporary workshop and occasionally art students.

As the guards escorted Charles and Erik to the workshops, Erik saw Janos outside in one of the exercise yards, standing quite still, looking even more uncharacteristically untidy than the last time. He also wasn’t wearing his uniform.

“My father taught me chess,” Charles was saying beside him, “he was a nuclear scientist. He had one of those very mathematical minds that are oftentimes seen in physicists and sometimes in engineers. My mother once said that the only thing he liked better than numbers was a blueprint. He liked architecture. The house in Winchester was a mixture of Baroque and Gothik, but with him it had secret tunnels, underground bunkers that provided endless hours of hide and seek for me and Raven.”

“Who’s Raven?” Erik asked.

“My queen,” Charles said.

“What?”

“Detective Darkholme, good afternoon.” There was a blonde woman in a suit rounding the corner with several officers flanking her, the red visitor’s badge indicating law-enforcement pinned on her trenchcoat. Seeing them, she hurried her steps toward Charles. Erik moved in front of him. She gave him a strange look but stopped a few feet in front of them.

“Charles, they let you out?”

“Under guard, as you can see.” Charles gestured to the men beside them.

“I’m...glad,” the detective said, strangely familiar. What was stranger was Charles’ reaction. All the time, Erik had never noticed how the softness of Charles’ voice could easily transmute to a sort of diamond hardness in such strong contrast to his face that it made him seem suddenly terrible.

“Glad to see me or glad to see me here?”

“You know I-” The detective’s eyes actually looked watery.

“I don’t, actually,” Charles interrupted. “I keep my promises.”

“Let me introduce Erik Lehnsherr. Erik, Detective Darkholme.”

Darkholme frowned. Erik couldn’t help notice the expression was familiar. He looked back at Charles, but Darkholme was extending a hand for him to shake. Her hand was much smaller than his, warm and hard with calluses.

“Erik is going to help me at the workshop.”

“Workshop?”

“I think even the most liberal sector of Oxford would hesitate to hire a professor with a record. I’m expanding my skillset.”

“You are impossible, Charles,” she laughed and it made her face so young and girlish that Erik find himself smiling.

“But so are you, so are we all, except for the lawyers. What was is it that McCoy said?” Darkholme winced as Charles continued, “it’s not a matter of what’s possible through law, but in law. I’ve to admit, the distinction was hard to grasp at first, but we can always wait and hope,” without waiting for an answer, he turned. “Let’s go, Erik.”

With that, they walked past the group until they stopped in front of the pottery workshop, broken pieces and wet clay dotting the floors and the walls. Erik looked at Charles, his immaculate clothes, and was suddenly ashamed at bringing him there. He could’ve came alone, asked for a set, then surprise Charles with it.

“Don’t worry about it, my friend,” Charles looked like he was in pain. “I needed to get out anyways. We can go elsewhere if you like.”

“Somewhere quiet?” Erik asked, remembering what Charles told him before. Had he really known him for so short him a time? It seemed longer, but time had never seldom meant anything for him. It passed. He waited. That had been all. “Who is she?” he whispered, mindful of the guards.

“The woman who caught me, Detective Raven Darkholme,” Charles said without a trace or irony, “My darling little sister.”

“Hide and seek.”

“Yes,” Charles sighed.

Erik gestured to the bruise on Charles’ neck.

“No, not her,” Charles said. “It was my own fault, a move in the wrong direction.”

-=-=

It was a Sunday, which Erik knew by the church bells in the nearby city that tolled for the evening mass. Once they told the guards where they intended to go, they left them alone. After all, no one actually went into the middle of the Institute if they wished to escape. In every sprawling complex, Erik had learnt over the years, the center buildings were always the oldest and the least well-maintained. There was the same musty smell to them, a mixture of old damp wood and mossy stones, in every country. And perhaps there was something unnatural that came with the miasma and age it was always the quietest spot. Erik had always been kept near the newer parts of any site, closest to Shaw and any technological advancements that limited the amount of metals in the structure. Shaw didn’t like to take chances.

“Chance for you to what?” Charles asked. They were sitting in the old concrete courtyard on sunwarmed grass. They had a few hours until dinner. Or at least, they would if they were on the normal schedule. Charles was changing things.

“To kill him,” Erik said. “The sentence has to fit the crime.” He wanted everyone to know.

“No one’s innocent,” Charles said, unsurprised. “Killing him will not bring you what you hope for.”

Irritated, Erik rolled away from Charles. “What do you think I hope for?”

“I know what you hope for. Freedom, peace, what every man hope for.”

“What did you hope for that your sister caught you?”

“I wanted peace,” Charles said simply, “like you. My sister is my sister, regardless. She manages the estate, she manages the lawyers, though understandably she no longer wears my name.”

“You killed Janos.” Janos had never been kind to Erik, but neither had he been unkind. He was someone that existed, that was all, but Erik saw him and recognized the blank look on his face and how it disturbed Azazel and Erik had always been the person in control of the sphere he travelled.

Charles rubbed at his face. “I was stressed. It was an accident.”

“And Azazel?”

“You were agitating.”

“I was agitating?” Erik asked. He had read Count of Monte Cristo, he had been in countless prisons. He knew the meaning of “falsely accused” but he suspected that it was what was happening to him.

“It’s merely a statement of fact.”

“Facts,” Erik repeatedly flatly. Shaw was always looking for facts, facts about him and his abilities, his chemistry experiments that suppressed or released Erik’s abilities as if he was a toy.

“I can tell what you are thinking. I can erase memories. I can alter personalities. I can change perceptions, feelings, thoughts, but I am human. That, Erik, is the sum of my crime.”

“That you lack control over your abilities?”

“No, that I’m not a dispassionate god without needs and wants and desires,” Charles said, he managed to shift closer to Erik. “I am human.”

“I am not,” Erik said, got up, and went to stare at one of the walls. If he was human, he wouldn’t be here. If he was human, he wouldn’t have caught Shaw’s attention, that was the first lesson. He was someone different, special, better and yet Charles was the most powerful person..being...he had ever known.

“You are better,” Charles’ voice was in his head and his hand was smoothing down his shoulders. The touch made him shudder. “You are better than everyone I’ve ever known. Your mind moves upon silence, Michelangelo on the scaffold, Caesar at his tent, a child playing in the streets. You are no one but whom you created.”

Erik braced his arm on the wall and leaned his forehead against it. Charles was pushing at him, gently at the center of his back. Then there was a light kiss, slightly wet, at the back of his neck before Charles stepped away.

“You will play chess with me, won’t you? I’m always in need of a partner in the game.”

The game was being played, Erik thought. He was becoming hopelessly aroused and Charles must know and yet he was ignoring it. Erik took a shuddering breath. “Yes,” he said. “When we can find a set.”

“My father,” Charles said, “laid down the Xavier Institute for the Criminally Insane in a neat little grid.”

-=-=


	5. Chapter 5

It was still raining. "April showers," Moira commented as the plane landed in New York, "last one for the end of the month, I hope."

"I don't believe the weather is liturgical," Charles said quietly, nursing a whiskey. He ran a finger down the window, following the trails of moisture on the other side of the glass and added, "The migraines are getting worse."

Moira opened her mouth. She was going to say something pointed about the alcohol.

"I know," Charles answered.

Moira's expression twisted. "I still wish you wouldn't. It means I can't give you anything else. You know our research for a cure-"

Charles lifted the glass. "For now, this the only thing I know that for certain that helps."

"Killing your liver?"

"Numbing my brain, Dr. McTaggert." He unbuckled the seatbelt and stood, barely suppressing a groan from the unexpected vertigo. Moira's thoughts always broadcasted clearly- disapproval and worry and always, the backdrop of want and guilt every time he was like this. Like the others- she wanted, after all, to take care of him. Charles threw her his most charming grin before going down the steps where the freezing rain began to bite his face.

The car was already waiting to take them back to the house. Charles didn't recognize the chauffeur. The drive was long, but the road went past the countryside and there would only the two of them in the car the last third of the way. Moira would be driving and he should be recovering. He hadn't wished to come back, but Moira had tracked him down in Oxford where Raven was doing a more than adequate job as an unnecessary chaperone.

Most of the colleges in Oxford still didn't admit women, but everywhere else beyond spires and the quadrangles, there had been Raven at the corner of his eye, in his shadow. She was an American tourist, a student at the women's college, a waitress, and even a middle-aged man once sitting in the corner of the pub where Charles was attempting to win a wager. He had been winning- the girl had laughed, and was already standing beside him though she hadn't understood a single word he had said. She had seen his eyes, appreciated his smile and liked the images of rumpled sheets and slices of naked skin.

He should've realized. Gossip travelled like the wind. Rumour travelled even faster during periods of relative peace as people looking for distractions. At the height of the sensationalist market was the series of bloodless murders of apparently guiltless men found sitting in the spotless rooms of the clubs around Berkeley Square, leaked slowly out of the families keen to keep their double-barrelled surnames and titles out of frontpage splashes; the names were of more of populist interest than the nature of the murders- skeletons out of the closests of the great and the good always made for salacious gossip. Two wars may have ended, but yellow journalism's heyday seemed unending.

Of course, it was worse across the Atlantic. Charles blamed the five newspapers that arrived every morning at their silent breakfast table because Sharon abhorred chatter when she couldn't bear to speak. Raven's innocent reading log of mysteries turned into an unorthodox interest in the less savory side of society. Unorthodox, inappropriate, and thoroughly inconvenient.

Spotting Raven, he had to let the girl go and went to sit beside his sister. "Don't tell me you've decided to go on the stage." There would be no one to stop her, now.

"Can't I just indulge in my love of disguises?" Raven asked, keeping her voice low. Up close, Charles could see that the face was faultless, as usual, in that it was full of faults, from the uneven tan to the subtle assymetry of a mouth. Even disapproving, he couldn't help admiring the details.

"And how might I address you?"

Raven dimpled beneath the moustache. "Darkholme," she gruffed. "I made up the face by myself."

Charles shook his head, bemused. No girl should've found the misogynistic Sherlock Holmes attractive and worthy of imitating. "What is it about him? Tall, dark-" he teased.

"Fastidiously dressed," Raven added, making Charles very aware of his open-necked shirt and shapeless pullover, his tie already stuffed into a trouser pocket. "Very unlike you, yes. Charles, don't look at me like that. I've merely to come to stay with you for a while."

"Quantico's not fond of old New York's country set?"

"More like old New York is on a case," she lowered her voice, conspiratorial as they did as children, aching with curiosity of what happened downstairs to the party they weren't allowed to attend, what the strangers did behind closed doors. "Do you remember the series of old sketches and mannikins we found one Christmas and how we dressed them up for Halloween as king and queen and their court?"

Charles nodded warily. Their stepfather saw as little of Sharon as he dared but that year, the breakfast table had newly admitted Dr. McTaggert, a Scotsman, to treat Sharon Xavier called Mrs. Marko as her private physician. With the doctor had came his serious dark-eyed daughter, quiet in the way that counted but certainly not shy enough to deny Xavier siblings' invitation to join their games.

Damn, Charles had thought as Raven went on about knights and bishops and a certain deliberateness in the murders. His love of patterns and her love of puzzles could be fatal. He entertained her notions, suggested alternatives, and when the next migraine hit, Charles stayed in, determined to agonize through it while throwing Raven off the trail. Unfortunately, the second time he nearly walked into a bookcase because he didn't realise he couldn't travel through walls and was in fact, a man inside a physical body that bruised and hurt, Raven called Moira.

"Come home," said Moira over the telephone. "No one's about. It'll be only us."

The term was ending. The grad students were eager to see him off for a long vac. More imporantly, Raven was everywhere, dogging his footsteps like the proverbial detective, or a younger sister. Tired, Charles gave in. And as the house in Westchester loomed into view, the reddish walls unveiled behind the blurring downpour, for the first time since he could remember, Charles was glad to see the stonework. The headache was slowly abating. It had, at the time, seemed like a fresh beginning.

-=-


	6. Chapter 6

"Hey you!"

Charles's hand was carding through Erik's hair, letting the soft strands slip through the inside of his fingers, pleasantly ticklish. Erik was still throwing off of the effects of whatever Shaw had given him last week. His eyes were closed, his breathing still slightly uneven. As much as Charles could dictate what Erik ate or drank while he was with him, the daily plastic cup of pills that arrived for Erik was beyond his influence. Erik probably shouldn't even be out here, but had visibly gritted his teeth and insisted on coming when Charles said he needed to go see the central courtyard again. It was just as well he could survey while sitting down.

"Hey you!" The words repeated themselves. There was no mind, only the sound. It filtered through awareness slowly. Curiosity and a vague sense of alarm made Charles turn his head and remain silent as the other man approached, looking as broad as a door and twice as strong. He came closer- a face as grim as a statue, expression set in an ageless snarl. Head on his lap, Erik stirred.

"Logan," he grated out, trying to get up.

"Lehnsherr, still about I see," drawled Logan, "thought they finally did you in."

"I'm going," Erik had to pause for breath as he got upright, "to last. This one. As well."

"That's what they all say. New boy?" The last part, Charles expected, was directed at him. He did feel like a boy, next to Logan; his face too young; and beneath his rolled up shirt-sleeves, his limbs too smooth and too pale. Even Erik looked half a child, the narrowness of his shoulders and the slimness of his body seemed somehow adolescent instead of whittled strength.

Logan, Charles hoped, was not looking for a fight. It could be one he could win, but, Charles suspected, not without considerable loss. There was something haunting about the man and he dreaded hauntings.

"I see you're the quiet type. Lehnsherr likes them that way, though it seems that you've got him speechless."

"Leave us alone," said Erik.

"Us now, is it?" Logan seemed amused. "Not a word after that night, thought you'd been taken and was awaiting my turn until we saw Janos making wind eddies in the sand lot. Not up to the standards, I see now." His eyes did a disconcerting speculative once-over.

"Charles Xavier, at your service," Charles interrupted, impeccable manners as an armour.

"Are you?" the man drawled. "At his," Logan gestured at Erik, "undoubtedly. Three weeks, but you got him fed at least, put some flesh on those bird bones."

Charles laid a careful hand on Erik's back, half-protective, the hard swell of shoulderblade still too easily detectable.

"What about the rest of us? Don't think I can't hear you, can't smell what you've been up to, Xavier."

Charles lifted an eyebrow. "I think all of us have up to something to be here."

"I'm here because I am, Xavier. You can say I'm an expert in deaths."

The man's eyes were half-feral, but closer, Charles could feel his mind and knew he could exercise the push and pull of his powers on Logan. Still, the mind was somehow...dense, the thoughts so tangled as to be near impenetrable. In fact, he knew it should hurt except for Erik's presence close to him. It would be too easy to get lost again if he tried to read him. Charles had to rely on Logan's words and his words had made Charles' heart skip a beat. Sympathy was still a new sentiment.

Logan's lips drew back from his teeth, as if he could indeed smell Charles' surprise. "And I say then you've no business digging up the dead, Xavier. No good ever come of it."

"One argues that only by digging up the buried can the good come forth," Charles replied primly, very aware of how Erik was looking at him.

Logan tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, but he was speaking to Erik: "Thought better of you Lehnsherr, thought you just wanted Shaw dead."

"Shaw," Erik said carefully, "will be dead. Just don't interfere."

"And you think Xavier's going to help you?"

Erik didn't answer, but sweat was beading on his forehead. Talking was a strain. They needed to leave. Erik needed to rest.

"Go away," said Charles. Logan backed away a few steps, surprised at himself, then Charles choked, his neck caught in a bruising grip, a sharp burst of pain exploded on the side of his face. There was something ticklish dripping down the side of his face.

Erik, wild-eyed beside him, was gripping Logan's arm tightly, his fingers whitening around the edges. "Let him go."

Proctractile claws, Charles was thinking, amused, how like an animal. Hybridistic actavism, throw back to some primordial branch of the human ancestry? Then he looked down, noticed absently the trickle of blood (his own) on the uneven surface. Bone then, minus the periostium. The possibility of infection must be astronomical, another potentially deletorious mutation then, but with the immune system possibly producing a compensatory effect until the man was almost immortal.

It took a moment before he realised that he could breathe again. "Telepath eh? Whatever you two are up to, just make sure I can get some decent cigars," he heard Logan say.

"Anything." That was Erik, his words strangled.

Then- "Charles? Charles!" Snapping back to his surroundings, he caught Logan's hand as it withdrew and smoothed his thumb over knuckle. Below, the wound had already healed, the skin unblemished but wet with blood. Logan's emotions became obvious. He wouldn't say no. It was hardly flattering. Charles laughed, his thumb stroke over the skin again.

Erik's inhaled sharply beside him.

"Whatever game you are playing, leave me out of it." Logan looked sidelong at Erik then slowly withdrew his hand.

"Who says it's a game?" Charles asked archly, his voice still hoarse. "I can get you those cigars, but-"

Logan was oddly calm. Erik was ready to murder, futility be damned. Charles, in his own thoughts, realised he wished for an ally. Logan beat him to the words.

"Listen, bub, when the revolution comes, the only person ever to survive with their back against the wall is me." Was that a warning? How kind of him. Nonetheless, disappointing.

"Who says there will be a revolution?" Charles didn't like disappointment.

"All wars are revolutions in some way, all truths are revolutionary."

"Didn't quite realise you're a philosopher," Charles countered.

"Nah, just walked too many soapboxes. It gets into the bones."

Confused, Charles asked, "Words?"

"No," Logan's index finger swiped over Charles' face, then licked at the red, "the blood from afterwards." He then raised both of his hands. "Leaving now, of my own accord. Try your tricks again and you both will be gone. I'll remain. I always do."

Erik was looking worse. Charles almost summoned the guards to help them back except he knew Erik won't stand for it. There were two high spots of colours on his cheeks as he clung to Charles' waist as they made their way back, the long line of his body burning like a brand on his side.

"You're hurting me," Charles whispered.

"Good." Erik's arm was like a steel band, cinching tighter. "You left me," he accused.

"I was right beside you," Charles said, feeling the urge to twist away, let Erik fall. "Do you mean when I almost choked."

"You know I-" Erik fell silent, tamping down words though a flash of hurt crossed his face. His hold relaxed even as he leaned heavily into Charles, his mouth pressed on the angle of his jaw. This close, Charles could feel the erratic beat of his pulse.

It was cruel of him. Charles regretted it, oddly guilty. He was still unused to being himself all the time and Erik had never- Except by his face, by his actions, by his thought, and words... Charles floundered. "I'm sorry, my friend," he offered to Erik tentatively, "it' just, I had his blood once."

"What?"

"We've known he was here, of course. Moira, that is, my doctor, tried to find a cure."

"For your telepathy?" Erik asked, exuding hostility.

"Perhaps, but it was the migraines." Charles said, unwilling. at the moment, to confess that he and the telepathy could not be separated and for a long time, neither could the problems that came with it. "They developed a serum based on his blood, but it didn't work. Nothing worked," he continued. They staggered into the room, he helped to lay an unprotesting Erik down on the bed then almost climbed in after him, but resisted. It was still light outside, the sunset ruddy on the horizon. Erik's brow was paper pale and hot to the touch.

"You have a fever." Charles, at a loss, wondered if he had a thermometer or a moltrin or perhaps call for the doctor.

"I'm all right. Don't let him- Just," Erik closed his eyes. He pulled weakly at the coverlet, the tips of his fingers twitching. Charles averted his eyes and went to the window and drew the curtains, plunging them into shadow. When he returned, Erik had turned onto his side. Charles poured a glass of water, considered urging Erik to drink it.

"Nothing worked, until you," Charles told him after a while, sitting at the bedside, a hand pulling at Erik's shoulder to get him to take a sip. He had managed to get ice-cubes with the chilled dessert at dinner. It remained melting on the plate.

-=-=

Charles was counting the days, but it was the middle of the night, gone just past two in the morning. The room was cold. And across from it, Erik was miserable.

The fever had gone down, but he was drifting in and out of consciousness, dreaming of all the rooms he had been in and dreaming that they were all a single dream. Charles wanted to soothe Erik into proper sleep, except that meant going into Erik's dreams because had been long enough for Erik to be dreaming his dreams and Charles didn't like to revisit his dreams. It defeated the purpose.

Charles tapped at the cover of the book he had been reading before he fell asleep, the pages still splayed across his knees. Then, marking his place with a ribbon, he closed the book and turned on the bedside lamp, the sudden light temporarily blinding. Throwing a sheet over the lampshade, he dimmed the light further.

"I don't want to trip," Charles explained as he slipped out of his own bed into Erik's, his mouth at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Erik smelled and tasted of sweat and sunwarmed stones with a trace of bitterness beneath. Charles traced his hand over his face, his throat, then a line down his side to where the hem of Erik's shirt had ridden up and a beveled scar was exposed to touch. He curled his palm over the narrow hip.

If nothing else, it was distracting and Erik was awake now, drifting in the pleasant haze of arousal and fatigue, but his mind was quiet, if frustrated. The front of Charles thighs were against the back of Erik's legs. He shifted slightly then felt one of his leg pressed between two bony knees. The fit uneasily and oftentimes uncomfortably, but the attention of a beautifully desperately ordered mind was in itself a pleasure- Erik's body against his, Erik's mind a bulwark against the noise. Sometimes, Charles thought he could love Erik Lenhsherr.

"What would you like?" Charles wanted to know, words breathed against skin.

"How were you caught?" Erik asked again. The unspoken question: How are you with me? Erik did not like uncertainties.

"My stepfather killed my father and married my mother," Charles decided to answer, now calm with the facts. "The Institute was his last project. Now I know, for me."

"You are kind to me." There were appalling gaps in Erik's education. He, too, had the mathematical mind- number series, not fantasies, soothed after he forgot his parents' voices. And that was all they were now, small voices in the dark, but all Charles' kindness were merely selfish.

Even now, the undercurrent lust ran thick and dark beneath all his affection. His hand began to rub small circles on Erik's bare skin, venturing a wider diameter, though never straying. In a moment, Erik's hand would meet his and still the movement in the tangle of their fingers, but he would not turn around for the promise of a kiss. At least, not in bed.

Sometimes Charles wondered if it was the isolation from society that prompted his own body to find the hard angular planes beneath his hand desirable and the strong face wonderful when he had previously preferred curves and swells of pneumatic flesh. And, the irony of having Erik with him was that left only with his own deliberation, Charles wondered if it was fair. Still, he didn't take what was not offered and Erik never offered. That was, he didn't know how. But Charles had every idea who was standing behind the curtain and listening to the labors of Erik's body and mind, his thwarted desires. Hearing the litany of misery and bitterness in his head, Charles felt a sudden fear. "Don't go mad, Erik, my friend. This, too, will pass," he plead quietly. _Go to sleep, find serenity. Find it as I found it with you. You are not alone and I am here._

There was telepath blocking metal woven into the very insulation of these walls, thickest in the bedroom walls where Charles was suppose to sleep. It was, ironically, originally of his design, but later on, he thought he designed it too late, because he still carried memories even if there was no input. Now there was Erik, his vengeance and violence and impossible yet hard-won existence. The world fell quiet in his presence.

 _Why are you here?_ Erik's thoughts pressed sleepily into his.

 _My sister conceived a perfect crime, then she caught me._

It was less the words than the answer itself, but Erik fell asleep, this time dreamless, with Charles beside him.

But in the morning, Erik was worse.

-=-=

-=-=

"The conditions of your appointment-" Charles let the phrase drag. He couldn't see Shaw's face entirely from beneath the ridiculous headgear -- Russian design, no doubt, with medieval aesthetics-- but he was here to demand, not persuade, "made certain allowances for your own research and private patients. Room and board, and, as I recall, our resources as much as deemed reasonable."

"I do read my contracts, Dr. Xavier. The terms were generous."

The terms were more than generous, Charles knew. Sebastian Shaw's reputation preceded him and rumours of his role in the Nuremberg Trials had pursued him. And, Charles, for reasons professional and personal, had more than a stockholder's interest in the development of the institute and Shaw. He continued, "The Xavier Institute, for all that it is affiliated with the government, is expressly not a charity organization. We are not in favour of unecessary treatment or procedures. Your results of your research, which we fund, belong to me. And, in fact, so does your working hours." There was a crumpled bell on his desk serving as a paperweight, Charles stared at it before looking back to Shaw. "Reasonable may seem a bit nebulous at first; nonetheless, it has come to my attention that you are pushing the limits of the definition."

"You are, of course, talking about little Erik. I hear he is not well." Shaw seemed unconcerned. "It's probably just the season. He's never been as hardy as he looks."

Charles made a moue of distaste. "I wish you wouldn't call him little," he complained.

Shaw smirked. "They do grow up quickly. It seems just like yesterday when he was a boy crying for his mother."

Charles chose to ignore the remark. "Regardless, he is not well. And when he's not well, I find myself distressed. The proximity makes it inevitable. It also makes it difficult to notice that his health seems to be remarkably tied to the time and frequency of his appointments with you." Guards talked. And even if Shaw knew of Charles' friendship with Erik, Charles preferred that the exact nature and extent of it remained unknown.

After all, Shaw was remarkably and disturbingly attached to Erik and Erik would never tell what happened during his session with Shaw, leading Charles to suspect the worst.

"You are free to choose where you reside, with certain degree of reasonableness as well, I'm told," Shaw said.

Shaw had an expression like a man with a very good hand. Even if Charles hadn't know what Shaw did to Erik, his smugness was irritating. Erik didn't like uncertainties. Charles loathed someone who imagined that they knew more than him because it was simply not true. "I point it out, Dr. Shaw, as a courtesy, as I'm aware that you are aware that you have obligations to other patients as well as to Erik."

"Has there been a review? I have tried kept my appointments with Erik on my own time," Shaw replied evenly. "My apologies if his absence disturbs your breakfasts or dinners.

Breakfasts and dinners that Erik couldn't eat. Charles froze his expression into politeness. "May I remind you that the stipulation being, reasonable. And I am, at the moment, being the holder of your contract, arbiter of the degree of reasonableness."

Unfortunately, just then, the secretary arrived with the tea and coffee and Charles had to tamp down the wave of his own anger and her anxiety as she fussed about sugar and milk.

Shaw leaned forward, steepling his hand. "Mr. Marco, your stepbrother, I understand, has a place on the board of directors been assembling evidence regarding certain accusations, making your reminder perhaps less affective than you imagined."

Charles smiled, temporarily discarding the worries about the evidence Cain had been assembling. Raven wouldn't have betrayed him and there could be no evidence. Nothing physical, at least, unless there was another telepath. "You've not met Cain, I believe." Shaw shook his head though his small eyes narrowed in the shadow of the helmet. "Aside from the fact that he does not have a controlling interest in the Institute, let me tell you about my stepbrother. He likes horses. He likes boxing, gambling, and a mixture of those three things. He does not like, and I quote "eggheads with superiority complexes" counting, of course, yours truly." Charles inclined his head. "Science, for man with his taste, is a waste of time and more importantly, money." He swept his eye over the heavy mahogany desk and paintings on the walls, his eyes catching on the depiction of a strangely familiar St Sebastian. It was actually a photograph of a younger Erik, bound and pierced by..actual arrows? He forced himself to face Shaw again. "I understand that you are German and possibly unacquainted with the upkeep of a horse and stall for the Kentucky Derby, but let me assure you that Cain would prefer the stall to this building and a horse to the building's staff." Shaw's jaw tightened. Charles paused, relishing the effect. "It may be premature to entrust your future in Cain's hand. And may I remind you, again, Sebastian, I've not been declared mentally unfit nor criminal according to US laws."

In the lengthy silence between them, Charles took the opportunity to take the cup of coffee. His hand, gratifying, was not shaking despite the strangle of emotions inside him. Occasionally, his upbringing came in handy.

"I am not..unaware..of yours or my position," Shaw relented at last. "It can be frustrating. Erik can be a handful even in the best of times," he chuckled, "I should know."

Charles found himself looking at the painting again. Thinking of it as a photo was too dangerous. "You are here by the good graces of the the US government and Xavier name. Even the custody of Erik Lenhsherr, though undoubtedly muddied through the European conflict and your own migrations, may be just as easily clarified by a call to the appropriate people, making him a permanent resident of this Institute without you. He was, I think, very far from eighteen when he became your patient."

Shaw was remarkably attached to Erik even as Erik was to Shaw. It would be difficult, certainly not impossible to make good on the threat, except Charles had promised Erik his vengeance so he would hold Shaw for Erik, a promise that he would break only for Erik's sake.

In his helmet, Shaw couldn't see what Charles was looking at without turning his head, but undoubtedly he knew. "Appropriate medical treatment have always been administered to keep him docile. He remains, by nature, violent." He sounded wistful. "I've been Erik's doctor for a very long time. His parents had entrusted him to me when they realised what he is. Our history together is a long one and other professionals have validated my methods. Partly, of course, the new regimen is for your safety."

"I expect the inappropriate treatments to stop," Charles said curtly. "My safety is not your concern. It is my doctor's. And if Erik should do anything, which he had not even on the night of my arrival, it is my own business. Rest assured, both Cain and my lawyers will absolve both you and Erik from any legal repercussions."

It worked to Shaw's advantage. He gave his assent. Charles had won a reprieve for Erik, but he just feel exhausted. "When might I find myself to be...released...from Erik's distress?" he asked.

Disturbingly, Shaw seemed excited by the question. "Between you and me, Dr. Xavier, I don't know. You are not a medical doctor, but I'm sure you understand when I say that the dosages would need to be decreased slowly. As to what will happen afterwards..." Shaw spread his hands, "who knows? However, we are both men of science, we have our hypotheses and we wait for our results. We are, what is that word? Sympatico. "

"Genetics is a bench science. The experimental methodology in psychobiology, I believe, is still relatively arbitrary." Charles said coldly, rising to leave. He was tempted to ignore Shaw's outstretched hand.

"It is always a pleasure," Shaw laid the other hand atop of his. Charles almost flinched at the warmth. "And I hope it will be for you as well." Shaw had a wicked face. It could look sincere in a heartbeat and mocking in the next. "That, I believe, has always been the objective, isn't it, Professor Xavier?"

-=-


End file.
